


The Lion Shall Lie Down with the Lamb

by trill_gutterbug



Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: Anyway what if the mute had been five minutes later getting there, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Diarmuid's 16 I think so this is tagged underage but lbr that was not underage for the time so, God this movie's sofa king gay, Graphic Depictions of Being Strangled to Death, M/M, My theoretical apologies to the Bible for this title lol but not really, That extremely rapey once-over Raymond gave Diarmuid while circling him in the woods, mid-movie, oral rape, the character death is not the mute or diarmuid btw, what if au, you know the one I mean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-01
Updated: 2018-08-01
Packaged: 2019-06-20 00:05:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15521688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trill_gutterbug/pseuds/trill_gutterbug
Summary: Raymond steps closer. The smell of him is sharp, the stink of a man who eats meat and rides horses and washes rarely. “Anyone can wear the robes of a monk,” he says. He lifts a hand. “So let’s see what’s beneath yours.”





	The Lion Shall Lie Down with the Lamb

Diarmuid has never been frightened of someone before, not truly. This is nothing like being switched by Brother Fergal for not shutting his eyes during prayers. This is not even the knife-edge danger of cold and hungry clansmen descending on the monastery unannounced to demand food and shelter. Those times had been humiliating, or thrilling, or a good lesson. He had never been alone. He had had no concept, on the cusp of his ninth or eleventh winter, that he could truly die. 

He is sure now that he is capable of death. That the world is beyond him. 

The cruel curve of Raymond’s mouth spells silent things in a language he doesn’t know. The curl of Raymond’s hand at his hip, near the hilt of his sword, curdles Diarmuid’s stomach with fear. 

“My father is always impressed with pious men,” says Raymond. “Me? I have my doubts.” His eyes slide once, slowly, down the length of Diarmuid’s body and back up. The breadth of his shoulders is like a lodestone to Diarmuid’s eyes, dragging him along as Raymond circles him. Diarmuid’s spine feels cold and crawling, old fat left out to fill with maggots. 

Raymond steps closer. The smell of him is sharp, the stink of a man who eats meat and rides horses and washes rarely. “Anyone can wear the robes of a monk,” he says. He lifts a hand. “So let’s see what’s beneath yours.”

Diarmuid lurches back, bare feet slipping in the leaves, but Raymond is much faster than him. He seizes the front of Diarmuid’s robe in one gloved hand and yanks him forward. Diarmuid opens his mouth, a panicked cry clawing up from his belly, but Raymond grabs his face in the other hand and squeezes, stopping the scream in his throat. He pulls Diarmuid’s robe down from the shoulder so hard it tears. Diarmuid hears the sound and he feels the jerk of it come up against his neck, bruising-hard. He scrabbles at Raymond’s wrist, nails scratching the leather and mail. Raymond grins at him, so close Diarmuid can see a missing side tooth and the dark jagged spiral of scar at the corner of his eye. 

“I see living easy hasn’t hurt you any,” Raymond whispers. He grabs the flesh of Diarmuid’s stomach, pinching it. He digs his fingers into Diarmuid’s chest. “Supple as a lamb.” The hand clamped over Diarmuid’s mouth loosens, just enough to turn and grip the curve of his jaw instead. He jams his gloved thumb into Diarmuid’s mouth. The leather is cold and tastes sour. Diarmuid bites down on it without thinking-- He isn’t thinking at all. 

Raymond hits him on the side of the head. Diarmuid doesn’t see it coming, only realises it has happened after he can breathe and see again, his ears ringing. His knees have buckled; Raymond is holding him up with one hand around the throat. “I said lamb, not dog,” he growls. He gives Diarmuid a shake like a bad puppy. “As I recall, the verse says the lion shall lie down with the lamb.” He laughs. “But the ground is cold, so perhaps kneeling will do.” The hand on Diarmuid’s throat moves to his shoulder and pushes down. “You know how to kneel, don’t you, brother?”

Diarmuid folds. His bones have melted, his muscles withered. He’s breathing so fast the air is burning his nose, heaving in and out like a bellows. Raymond’s other hand twists into his hair, yanking it back. Diarmuid looks up and sees his face through a hot wash of tears. “What are--?” Diarmuid tries to ask, but the words break in his mouth. He is too frightened and too confused. A great quivering instinct has risen in him, paralysing him. A rabbit frozen at the touch of an eagle’s shadow. 

“Let’s not play that game.” Raymond gives him a shake by the hair. “You’ve been taught to serve, little monk.” He reaches for his belt and pulls it free. “So serve.”

Diarmuid still doesn’t understand. Not until Raymond pulls up the edge of his tunic and unknots the lace of his breeches and then-- oh, and then. The enormous crashing weight of it smothers him. It splits his mind. Surely Raymond doesn’t know… He  _ can’t  _ know. It is a secret Diarmuid has never spoken aloud, that he would never, and that--

Raymond shoves his thumb back into Diarmuid’s mouth, prying apart his clenched teeth. He lifts his organ out of his breeches. It is hard and curving and hooded, the same as Diarmuid’s, the same as everyone’s except--

Diarmuid tries to turn his head. He sobs out loud, shocked with disbelief. Raymond jerks him forward by the hair, pinching cruelly at the soft flesh of Diarmuid’s cheek, and shoves the organ between his lips. Before it has gotten an inch inside, Diarmuid gags. He shoves at Raymond’s thighs with both hands, trying to scramble backwards, but Raymond twists his hair harder and it  _ hurts _ . He can’t shut his teeth with Raymond’s thumb jammed in the hinge of his jaw--

The organ pushes deeper into his mouth. It tastes foul, like urine and sweat. It is hot on Diarmuid’s tongue, stretching his jaw. He chokes again, spit welling defensively beneath his tongue and dribbling out the corner of his lips. Distantly, he hears Raymond groan, chuckling. He says something, but Diarmuid can’t understand it. Perhaps it is French. Diarmuid’s head is pounding, a clamour ringing in his ears. His neck hurts terribly, bent as Raymond desires. The organ can’t possibly fit, it’s the wrong angle and it is too large, Diarmuid’s mouth is not ready for it--

But Raymond pushes in farther, and farther again, until it forces its way to the back of Diarmuid’s throat and then he chokes in earnest, his whole body clenching. He’s going to vomit, he can’t--

“Ah,” says Raymond, pulling back so it rests just on Diarmuid’s tongue. “Watch your fucking teeth, you bitch.” His thumb twists into the tender spot beneath Diarmuid’s ear and such a stab of pain lances through the side of Diarmuid’s face that he cries out loud with it. Raymond shoves back inside. Deeper this time, all the way in until Diarmuid’s face is crushed into the sharp edge of the mail draped over Raymond’s belly. He can’t breathe around the great wedge filling his throat. He beats his fists against Raymond’s thighs, choking, but the only response is another laugh from Raymond and a hitch of his hips that jams the organ even farther.

A curious blackness begins to prickle at the edges of Diarmuid’s vision. A great swooping calm descends on him. He goes limp.

“That’s right,” says Raymond, his voice close like he has bent to speak into Diarmuid’s ear. “Isn’t it easier when you--”

The world jerks sideways. The organ is torn from his mouth, Raymond’s hand ripping at his hair and then letting go. Diarmuid falls sideways. He lands on the ground hard, his head bouncing. There’s a noise, a bellowing, snarling, scrabbling. Something hits him and pins his leg to the ground, then rolls away. He coughs, the air scratching his throat. He blinks, pushing up on his hands, shaking the darkness from his eyes. He sees, rolling and thrashing in the leaves, Raymond and-- And the mute. 

The enormity of Diarmuid’s relief is overtaken a second later by fear. The mute is bare-chested and weaponless, Diarmuid can see that he is fighting with nothing but his fists. And Raymond is trying desperately to reach the sword trapped against his calf where his loose belt is flapping. He’s shouting, grunting, cursing in French. The mute is silent. 

Diarmuid scrambles out of the way as they roll toward him again. He casts around for something to use as a weapon, for a stick to pry them apart like two scrapping dogs, but there is nothing except Raymond’s open pigeon cage. A wet gurgling scream turns him around. Raymond is on his back in the dirt, his pale cock and balls hanging free. The mute is overtop him, pinning his thrashing arms with both knees, his hands wrapped around Raymond’s throat. 

Diarmuid stares in something that is not quite horror and not quite fear. He is strangely unconcerned. He had feared for the mute’s safety, but with Raymond held down like that... 

It dawns on him much too late that the mute is committing murder. Raymond has stopped screaming and is only wheezing for breath in a thin wet whine. His face is purple, his eyes bulging, his spine arched beneath the mute’s weight. Diarmuid opens his mouth to… What? To say  _ stop _ ? He doesn’t want the mute to stop. He doesn’t want any of this. He watches, dizzy, for endless minutes, until Raymond has gone limp, his eyes swollen shut and bloodshot. It’s a gruesome sight, but his chest still rises and falls beneath the mute, whose hair is a wild mess around his face, his bare chest heaving. Diarmuid thinks, soft and dimly, about Brother Broccain showing him a goat that had gotten tangled in a rope and slipped off the roof of the chicken coop in the night.

_ “Probably took hours to die,”  _ Brother Broccain had said.  _ “Strangling takes too long, Diarmuid, and it spoils the meat. This is why we wring the necks of the chickens, because it is quick.” _

The mute must remember this lesson. He lets go of Raymond’s throat and turns around to grab the hilt of Raymond’s sword. The scabbard is tangled in Raymond’s unfastened breeches, but the mute rips it free. Diarmuid watches him turn back. Raymond is trying even yet to survive. His head moves weakly against the ground, mouth opening and shutting. The mute shifts his weight back onto his heels to give himself room. He drives the point of the sword through Raymond’s throat. It comes out the side and sticks into the ground. Blood pours forth, gushing over Raymond’s tunic and from his mouth, a great steaming wash of it. The mute stays still, leaning forward with his hands folded over the pommel of the sword, until Raymond’s chest stops rising and falling.

Diarmuid sees it stop and only then remembers to breathe for himself. The first breath he takes is loud, ragged. It sounds like a sob.

The mute turns toward him. For a long second his gaze is blank, unseeing, staring right at Diarmuid without recognition. And then all at once it clears. The mute blinks, shaking his head. He falls sideways off Raymond’s corpse to land on his knees, unsteady. He reaches for Diarmuid. Without meaning to, Diarmuid recoils. Hands coming toward him-- Bloody, big-- He doesn’t mean to.

The mute falls back immediately, dropping onto his haunches. He ducks his head until his shoulders are lower than Diarmuid’s, his hands held out open to the side. He doesn’t say anything, of course he doesn’t, but he doesn’t need to. It’s simpler than words.

Diarmuid’s head clears. He flings himself forward and the mute catches him in both arms, rising to meet him. The width of his chest and the thickness of his arms folds Diarmuid down into the smallest safest space, clutched close and squeezed tight. Diarmuid buries his face in the damp, heaving skin of the mute’s chest. He begins to cry in earnest, helpless, loud, bewildered tears. The mute touches the back of his head, where Raymond had twisted his hair. This time, the touch is tender, cradling the base of Diarmuid’s skull. He feels the mute’s beard pressed rough into the side of his face, his mouth forming a wordless kiss against the crest of Diarmuid’s cheek. 

“I don’t understand,” Diarmuid cries, “I didn’t do anything, I don’t  _ understand _ .” He realises he’s shaking when his teeth begin to chatter. That vile taste is still on his tongue. The mute holds him so tight Diarmuid can hardly draw breath, and he is glad of it. He clutches the mute’s bare back, his body curling as small as it will go. He feels cold, his muscles seizing with deep cramping shivers. For a long time, he can’t move at all. 

When his tears have dried, drained from him, he sits up a little straighter. He peers over the mute’s shoulder at Raymond, sprawled and still on the ground. His purple face is slack. Diarmuid shuts his eyes hard, turning his face into the side of the mute’s neck. He has seen men killed by violence before, but only after they were already cold and grey. For all the blood, Raymond could still rise. God, if only he would.

The weight of it crushes Diarmuid suddenly like a stone. “What have we done?” he gasps. “We’ve-- we’ve done murder--”

The mute shakes his head hard. He pries Diarmuid away from him and cradles his face in both bloody hands. He looks into Diarmuid’s sore wet eyes and shakes his head. He touches his own chest. 

“I--” Diarmuid’s unwilling gaze slide to Raymond again. His teeth chatter. “I did it, I-- I caused it--”

The mute pulls him closer and presses their foreheads together. He shakes his head again. He kisses Diarmuid’s cheeks and his chin and his mouth, firm begging kisses. Diarmuid lets him, slack with horror, quaking with it. “We have to-- to tell somebody,” he whispers. 

Another shake. The mute’s thumbs stroke his cheeks fretfully, over and over. His face is too close to focus on even if Diarmuid could. 

“Yes,” he says. “Yes, we have to-- Brother Ciaran--”

The mute takes both of Diarmuid’s hands in his and squeezes them, supplicating. Diarmuid recognizes, through his own haze of sick terror, an edge of fear in the mute’s eyes. 

“It wasn’t your fault,” Diarmuid says. “It was mine, you were only--”

The mute opens his mouth as though he wishes to speak, then shuts it, and squeezes his eyes shut too. His jaw clenches. 

The vulnerability of it turns a portion of Diarmuid’s dread into surety. “Yes,” he says again. He tugs at the mute’s hands. “I will speak in your defense, I will explain what--” He breaks off and has to swallow a surge of bile. “I will tell Brother Ciaran that he-- that he attacked me, that you were only coming to my aid. They can’t fault you for that, you did right.” He’s not sure he believes it, but he says it again. “You only did what was right.”

The mute opens his eyes and stares at Diarmuid. There is resignation alongside the fear. Diarmuid sees it, but he is so alight with the terrible panicked desire for confession that it seems foolish. Of course the mute is afraid, he has committed a terrible sin. But Brother Ciaran will provide absolution, and defend the mute to Raymond’s father, and smooth the turbulent waters. He will know what to do.

Diarmuid struggles upright, out of the mute’s arms, keeping hold of his hands. He steps backwards, tugging the mute away from Raymond’s crumpled corpse. “Please.” His teeth chatter but he speaks through it. He is bursting with frantic energy, limbs still shivering, his head pounding. He wants to run, to fix everything all at once, to shout for mercy. “Please, please. Brother Ciaran will know what to do, he will. If we confess, if we repent, it will-- everything will be alright.”

One last time, the mute shakes his head, slow, hopeless. He shuts his eyes. He goes with Diarmuid.

**Author's Note:**

> I think we can safely assume that everything will notttt be alright. But that's a story for another time!


End file.
